Beneath an ancient oak he lay; More years than man can count, they say, On the verge of the dim and solemn wood, Through sunshine and storm, that oak had stood. Tended the branches by day and by night; And the leaves of its age were as fresh and as green "I know thee, child of earth; In through the lattice did my chariot glide; Over thy first wild sleep, I rocked thy cradle when thy mother died. "And I have seen thee gaze Upon these birks and braes, Which are my kingdoms, with irreverent scorn; And heard thee pour reproof Upon the vine-clad roof, Beneath whose peaceful shelter thou wert born. "I bind thee in the snare Of thine unholy prayer; I seal thy forehead with a viewless seal : The buckler and the brand, And clasp the golden spur upon thy heel. "When thou hast made thee wise In the sad lore of sighs, When the world's visions fail thee and forsake, And to my haunted tree; The charm hath bound thee now; Sir Knight, awake!" Sir Isumbras, in doubt and dread, And started up from his grassy bed And he called the page who held his spear, Beneath the greenwood tree?" "Ere thou didst sleep, I chanced to throw A stone into the rill; And the ripple that disturbed its flow Is on its surface still; Ere thou didst sleep, thou bad'st me sing King Arthur's favorite lay; And the first echo of the string "How strange is sleep!" the young knight said, As he clasped the helm upon his head, And, mounting again his courser black, To his gloomy tower rode slowly back: "How strange is sleep! when his dark spell lies On the drowsy lids of human eyes, The years of a life will float along In the compass of a page's song. Grew weary of its bliss and peace. Who, when I turned with scornful spleen From the feast in the bower, or the dance on the green, And love me and forgive me still. Alas!" said the knight, "how strange is sleep!" He struck with his spear the brazen plate The torch threw high its waves of flame They lighted the way to the banquet hall, They spread the board, and they filled the bowl, And the phantoms passed from his troubled soul. Sir Isumbras was ever found Where blows were struck for glory; The queen would praise his dancing; Destroying mighty sorcerers, He throttled lions by the score, And, for his skill in lettered lore, They called him "Merlin's Cousin." A score of steeds, with bit and rein, An ox was every morning slain, And roasted for his table. And he had friends, all brave and tall, And minstrels came and sang his fame And they were paid with wine and game, And he loved a Lady of high degree, A countess for her maid had she, And a brow whose frowns were vastly grand, And a swan-like neck, and an arm and hand And a voice of music, whose sweet tones Of battered casques, and broken bones, He wore her scarf in many a fray, |